


like real people do

by RavensandWritingDesks2714



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Bugs, Flashbacks, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I made myself sad writing this so now you will be too, Inspired by a Hozier Song, Open Ending, Other, Stream of Consciousness, The 'does Lucien have Molly's memories' fic that nobody asked for, Unreliable Narrator, but that i'm happy to provide, graves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:01:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27583775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavensandWritingDesks2714/pseuds/RavensandWritingDesks2714
Summary: He takes his first breath and he feels -empty- alive.
Relationships: Cree & Lucien (Critical Role), Lucien/Mollymauk Tealeaf, The Mighty Nein & Mollymauk Tealeaf
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	like real people do

**Author's Note:**

> I just really needed to know if Lucien still had any of Molly's memories like Molly still had flashbacks to Lucien's memories, so. I wrote this. Inspired by Hozier and fueled by my ramblings to a friend who is very new to the fandom and doesn't understand why I'm in so much pain but supports me anyway. 
> 
> **Vague mentions of blood and injuries, plus the general awful that is digging yourself out of your own grave.**
> 
> Enjoy!  
> \- Raven

_I had a thought, dear however scary_

He takes his first breath, and it is filled with blood.

_About that night_

It is warm and rich and oh so familiar that it hurts.

_The bugs and the dirt_

It hurts for all of the two seconds it takes him to draw another breath. Then he feels panic, and he claws desperately, heaving and lurching. Something gritty crunches between his teeth. Something crawls its way from his ear, from his nose. Something slides against his tongue and when he gags he jerks so hard he bites down and then there is more blood, and something else and he heaves only to draw more blood into his lungs and

_Why were you digging?_

He digs. His fingers- are they even his?- claw their way up until something gives.

_What did you bury?_

His wrist gives, snapping with a sound that he doesn’t hear so much as feel through every fiber of his body, but he keeps going. More grit, more dirt, more blood but he can feel it. He’s close.

They’re close.

_Before those hands pulled me from the earth_

“Lucien!”

His wrist…his hand…his ears and his eyes and his mouth and there is cold and there is warmth and there is blood.

_I will not ask you where you came from_

“Lucien, you’re alive…once more.”

There are people and faces that he knows and yet…

_I will not ask, and neither should you_

“Where are the others?” he asks. “Where’s the rest?”

“Rest?” Cree’s face is cold before it warms; his blood in reverse- hot spilling from his lips but cold when it hits the ground. “It is just us. As it’s always been. As it will always be.”

He takes his first breath and he feels **empty** alive.

*

_I knew that look dear_

The travel is the worst. He wants to stop. He wants to stare. He wants to touch and taste and enjoy. There is a longing inside and he thinks…he thinks something must be consumed, something must be sated before it will ease.

_Eyes always seeking_

He can’t get enough of the fires, when they light them. He has half a mind to climb into it, and another half to…to do what, he’s not entirely sure.

_Was there in someone_

He stares into the flames sometimes, and as the heat kisses his face he can feel a different heat against his lips. There’s the weight of a body beneath his hands, his arms. He’s pushed someone against a wall and there is heat, there. Heat beneath his lips and against his palms and there is _time for that later_ and there is fire.

_That dug long ago_

“There were more of us, weren’t there? Cree?”

_So I will not ask you why you were creeping_

“No, Lucien. It was just us.”

_In some sad way, I already know_

*

He sees a flower.

It’s poking up from the barest inch of snow crunched down by their boots from the day before and he’s almost certain it hadn’t been there when they’d bedded down. It’s stuck in the ice when he goes to pick it, and he’s halfway through the motions of drawing his sword across his skin, thinking of warmth and that fire and dripping it down to melt the leaves free when

“Lucien!?”

_I will not ask you where you came from_

“Yeah yeah?”

He’s already on his knees, already drawing the bud to his heart. When he looks up he sees Cree staring at him, alarm on her face. Confusion on the others’.

“What are you doing?”

He frowns, lifting a brow, his lips twitching as he stands.

“Saving this for—”

_I will not ask, and neither would you_

“For…who, Lucien?”

*

The sun is bright and glaring against the snow, sending crystal patterns dancing with every shift of movement. Cree scowls and draws her hood up but Lucien wants to dance. It’s gorgeous, the sun is warm and….he wants something sweet.

_Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips_

He asks Cree when they stop for the afternoon and receives a blank look in return. He decides not to ask again, but the thought remains. A pastry, something soft and tart and sweet. Something blue.

*

The blue sticks in his head for some reason, and it sours and it roils until it becomes something _unpleasant._

He snaps at Otis, curses him until he runs out of breath. He pauses to breathe and it does not taste like blood, not like that night, and waits for the brash, familiar rasp of _fuck you too, Mo—_

“What crawled up your ass and died?”

_I will not ask, and neither should you_

*

Cree loses a button off her cloak just before they reach Balenpost, and Lucien has the thing tucked away in a side pocket moments after it hits the ground.

“Why?” Zoran asks, and he shrugs.

His fingertips itch, like he’d run them over or through something rough and wiry. Hair? He’s ruffling someone’s hair, and they barely come up to his waist in height and he thinks they’d appreciate having the button, if he saw them again.

*

He sees the ocean for the first? time at Balenpost, and he thinks _green._ The ocean is not green. It is crisp and cold and icy blue and he thinks _green_ and he turns with a quip about a wet dream on his lips and there is….

A voice in his head.

*

_I could not ask you where you came from_

There is a voice in his head and it’s like he’s been frozen and suddenly doused with hot water. Sudden sharp shock before his nerves settle, humming desperately with raw, tingling _feeling_.

_I could not ask, neither could you_

*

He grins, and breathes and feels _empty_ alive.

They’re getting closer.


End file.
